


Reminder

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Hair-pulling, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir’s caught exiting another’s quarters.





	Reminder

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for kaiirv’s “25. “You’re mine. I don’t share” Lindir/Thranduil” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s fortunate, at least, that he waited until late in the evening to return to this project—otherwise there would be a wealth of witnesses waiting in the hall. As it is, he imagines there’s a reasonable chance that he’ll make it back to his quarters unseen, where he can set his sullied robes aside to be washed. The generic, silken dressing gown he pulls around himself is highly inappropriate when worn outside the washroom, but it’s the only other option. He dare not borrow any of his lord’s clothes. He knows, at least, that Elladan would not mind lending him this, and he’ll be able to return it before Elladan returns from the hunt. Hopefully by then Lindir will have finished cleaning his chambers—both Elladan and Elrohir somehow always manage to leave a torrential mess behind, no matter how hard Lindir works to tidy their rooms in their absence. Lords’ chambers or not, Lindir likes to know that he’s kept _all_ of Imladris tidy.

That includes the guest chambers, and as Lindir straightens the sash of the dressing gown around his waist, he says a little prayer that his king won’t be displeased at his late arrival. He’d meant to quickly make some progress here and then immediately see to their illustrious visitors, but that was before he tripped over a stray boot and knocked a full bottle of lantern oil onto himself. At least he managed to shed his robes before it sunk to the skin. He scoops up the sodden bundle in one arm as he finally heads for the door—he’ll have to take care when he changes to find something to cover the smell.

He slips into the dark hall, and no sooner has he turned down the corridor when he’s grabbed from behind. Lindir lets out a startled squeak that’s quickly covered by a large palm over his mouth, another arm tight around his waist. His bundle of robes tumbles to the floor. For a split second, he’s _terrified_ , thinking intruders have made it past the guards, but then his senses kick in, and he realizes that he recognizes the familiar hold. The hand on his mouth drops to trail slickly down his chin and along his throat, fingertips brushing into the folded opening of his dressing gown. He’s hyper-aware that the skirt barely covers his thighs. His cheeks are heating.

It’s made worse when a hand fists in his hair and jerks it back. Lindir cries out in mingled pain and surprise, throat pulled taut and head leveled back on King Thranduil’s broad shoulder. Lindir looks up at his handsome face, washed worryingly neutral. The grip in Lindir’s hair loosens just enough to be tolerable, thought it doesn’t let go. Lindir’s sure he’s blushing bright red and partially wishes he’d never told his king how arousing he finds having his hair pulled. He looks wanton enough in his current attire. 

Holding Lindir steady, Thranduil idly drawls, “Just what are you doing exactly, emerging from another’s chambers so disheveled?”

Lindir quivers, suddenly horribly aware of what this looks like, and rushes to explain, “Only my duties, my king—” He pauses to whimper as Thranduil jerks his hair again, and he hurriedly amends, “Cleaning! I was only cleaning my lord’s chambers while he is away on a hunt—he is not there, I assure you—but I spilled lantern oil on my robes. No one saw me in this!”

“Except me,” Thranduil corrects. His crystal-clear eyes take on a look of fire, and he pulls Lindir sharply up, so that Lindir has to balance on his toes, back arched along Thranduil’s front. The sheer _power_ in Thranduil’s hands is intoxicating. Lindir struggles for composure while Thranduil hisses, “You are _mine_ , Lindir. And I expect you to know that I do not share.”

A shiver of _lust_ snakes down Lindir’s spine. How he ever managed to seduce such a gorgeous, virile king, he’ll never know. He’s wholly unworthy. He fights back a moan and whines, “I would never disrespect my king in such a manner.” He would never wish to, but he would also never have any cause to—Thranduil is more than enough. When Thranduil visits, the ghost of his touch still lingers for years. 

But it’s only visits, and Thranduil quietly replies, “You disrespect me with every night you spend here, when you know I would have you in my own halls.”

Lindir doesn’t answer, even though he feels horribly honoured, flattered, and guilty for it. Imladris is his home, and he isn’t strong enough to survive the Woodland Realm. He’s barely strong enough to survive his king on sparing visits. It doesn’t stop him from thinking of leaving, often and endlessly, but he imagines that he’s young, and some day, when the world is a safer place, he’ll go. ...If Thranduil will still have him.

Of course, if he were to simply do it now, to damn all the consequences and give himself completely to this passion, then every night could be spent in his beloved king’s bed, and every day spent in the revered company of Middle Earth’s greatest lord...

But he has his duties to Lord Elrond, he reminds himself. And if he relinquished himself to Thranduil’s touch every night, he would have no energy or ability left to serve anyone in the mornings. 

When it becomes obvious that Lindir has nothing to say for himself, Thranduil releases the grip on his hair. Lindir gasps in relief and sinks down against Thranduil’s towering form, slumping in place, only for Thranduil to suddenly wrench one sleeve down his shoulder. Lindir flinches and shakes, lips parting. Thranduil’s hand slides below the fabric to rub across his chest, caressing his left breast and—

Lindir moans, “ _Ahhh_ , please, my lord...”

And Thranduil releases him entirely, even stepping back and out of his reach. Without the support, Lindir wilts in place, his knees shaking hard enough to threaten his collapse.

Thranduil purrs, “Very well; let it never be said that I am not a merciful king.” Lindir exhales at length. “We will dispose of this flimsy excuse for a robe in my quarters.”

He pauses only long enough for Lindir to grab his discarded robes again. Then Thranduil is marching off down the corridor, and Lindir eagerly falls in line.


End file.
